


Let No Man Steal Your Thyme

by GotDaRichKidBlues



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, A little bit of Victorian, Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Falling In Love, Jealousy, Longing, Queen of the Farmlands, The period drama AU nobody asked for, Varys is definitely here to stay because I love him, a little bit of regency, class politics, period drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2020-03-30 22:27:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19036867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotDaRichKidBlues/pseuds/GotDaRichKidBlues
Summary: “He has no known heir who can contend for the inheritance. You, his widow, are entitled to the whole estate.”In which Sansa Stark inherits an estate and meets an angry, unpleasant man.





	1. Matters of Inheritance

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is me desperately grasping at straws in my attempts to move on from the last season. As always, I welcome any feedback and comment. They are precious and they keep me rolling. I truly hope you enjoy this!
> 
> (I want to thank my great friend for being with me on this boat and encouraging this little crack project. This is partly a gift to her.)
> 
> I promise next chapter will feature the one and only Sandor.

Her late husband left no will, which failed to surprise her. The solicitor, a simpering man called Varys, whose mannerism she had come to like despite her guarded feelings for his person, told her the news with a satisfied smile.

“He has no known heir who can contend for the inheritance. You, his widow, are entitled to the whole estate.”

The news was disturbing to say the least and many emotions rose all at once, threatening to spill out. But Sansa remained composed; if anything, she wanted to deny this man the satisfaction of appearing pleased.

“Are we certain that there are no heirs? I seem to recall Jon speaking highly of his cousin from the Vale.”

Varys laughed, shaking his bald head. Sansa wondered why he had never bothered to buy a wig, like most of the men in his trade.

“That cousin, I am afraid to announce, was a Stone by birth.”

“Illegitimate?” Sansa added for confirmation.

“Quite so. And certainly unfitting to lead an estate. I have made some enquiries myself. He seems to be fond of your late husband’s pastimes. I mean no offence, of course.”

“There is none taken. I now understand why Jon spoke of him so often.”

After Varys left, Sansa lingered in the study. The place bore no sign of having been used. A layer of dust had accumulated on the mahogany desk. Sansa swiped a finger, making a mental note to ask the maid for a thorough cleaning. She expected that she would often find herself in this room from now on.  
\--

Sansa mourned in the way that was expected. She wore her black silk gowns, hid behind a lace veil at church, received the condolences with the right expressions of gratitude. Jon Arryn had not been well-liked, except by the other young men with whom he shared much of his passions for hunting and other acts of debauchery. To the older members of society, he had been a capricious and insufferable man, loud at parties and notorious for cheating during card games.

The week following the funeral saw the arrival of her sister Arya. She walked in unceremoniously, disregarding the butler’s baffled mutterings and the looks of her various maids. Sansa could hardly blame them. Had she not known her sister, she would have felt the same measure of shock. In her riding breeches, a white shirt tugged haphazardly and a whip dancing at her side, she was an affront to most civilized society. Her short hair, uncurled and free, only aggravated the picture.  
Arya paused at the door of the drawing room, assessing her with one sharp look before striding to her side and embracing her.

“I am so sorry,” Arya muttered against her hair. “This is terrible news.”

She pulled away to look at her again, and seemed to discern a lot more than Sansa ever wanted to disclose. She hated that Arya could read her like an open book.

“It _is_ terrible news or am I wrong?” Arya asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know. It certainly feels terrible to see a man die so young.” She straightened the skirt of her dress, avoiding her sister’s eyes. “And in such a dreadful way too.”

Arya sat down in the chair, crossing her lean legs. Her boots were muddy and spiked with blades of grass.

“So what? You’ve never loved him. I don’t think half the women in this country love their husband.”

Sansa laughed. Indeed, she had not loved him, not when he first showed up in his pompous carriage and certainly not during their brief marriage together.

“I won’t blame you. He was an ass.” Arya continued to Sansa’s shock.

“He has not been dead two weeks yet! What if someone hears you?” Sansa swiftly closed the glass doors. She did not trust her maids. Then, turning back to her sister whose smirk showed no remorse, she added, “I’ve inherited the estate.”

Her sister sat forward, eyes widening; it made her look strangely softer, almost like a lady.

“The entire estate?” her sister repeated. Sansa nodded. “This,” and Arya slapped the arm of the chair,” is all yours?”

To be sure, there was more anxiety than pleasure in the news. The estate spanned acres and acres, with some parts as unknown to her as the Indies. Her husband had not concerned himself with the less exciting part—the farmlands. She knew they existed somewhere behind the splendid façade of her home, that they generated a measure of profit and that every decision pertaining to their economy was handled by a middle man called Petyr Baelish. That was the extent of her intelligence and it seemed highly insufficient for the lady of the the house.

“I am to meet with Varys again, to go over the finances of the estate. I mean to do this right and I mean to do this well. Will you help me?”

Arya stood up, grabbing her riding whip for emphasis, the picture of determination.

“When do we start?”

\--

“There are some concerning gaps in the financial reports, no doubt something that can be explained easily.” Varys pointed to the dates in the paper. “Monthly reports for the yield of grain have been omitted every two months. While this could be a simple mistake, caused by forgetfulness, the frequency of it does appear suspicious. Did your late husband ever take notice of this?”

Sansa stifled a laugh. She had found the reports untouched in the top drawer of the study, still tied with the string and wrapped in delicate silk. Imagining Jon pouring over the content of these papers, the numerous dates and numbers, was almost an impossible task.

“I do not recall. But do tell me, who was responsible for the reports?”

“They are signed by Petyr Baelish. Unless he has someone else under his employ, I should think he made the mistake.”

The way he halted over the last word seemed to indicate that he did not think it a mistake at all. Sansa pondered over the possibility that this Baelish person was stealing from her husband, taking advantage of his recklessness.

“What would you advise me to do?”

Varys crossed his plump fingers together—a gemstone ring just as thick shone against the filtered light from the windows behind.

“It would not be wise to keep a man—how do I say it—a man so prone to making mistakes in your establishment. If these missing reports are any indication of loss, they could have already hurt the finances of this estate.”

“Who else could take over?”

Varys looked at her pointedly.

“Me?” Sansa blinked in surprise. “What do I know of grain and farming?”

“This is not a matter of knowledge but management. You expressed a desire to direct the affairs of this estate. This is your opportunity to do so. The knowledge will come with time.”

Sansa pictured the farm, using the memories of her long lost childhood at her father’s small estate. She imagined herself walking on muddy ground, her shoe sticking away from her foot, the bottom of her dress coated in dirt. Then, she saw herself talking to the farm folks—men and women who, in her limited mind, appeared coarse and mean—and attempting to direct their affairs, she, the unfamiliar wife of their late Lord.

_Arya would be more fit for this._

The solicitor read her anxiety with no difficulty, leaning forward with a concerned look. Sansa felt strangely akin to him in that moment.

“I do not say this often, merely because I do not think it often. You would be surprised at how many lords and ladies I have had to flatter in all my years as a solicitor. But you are different. You wish to do right by this blessing. You are from the North, are you not?”

She nodded, the reminder of her origins fortifying her.

“You northern folks have always had a strong sense of duty. If the late Jon Arryn accomplished one good thing for his legacy, it was choosing you for his wife.”

He sat back in his chair, a pleased smile playing on his thin lips. Sansa smiled too, an iron strength returning in her bones.

\--

The first order of duty was to let go of Petyr Baelish. When he was announced in her study, Sansa stood straight mimicking her father’s stance and stern look. She had picked a long sleeved black dress adorned with lace as a reminder of the gravity of the situation.

“Lady Arryn, it is my pleasure to finally make your acquaintance,” said the man in a measured tone.

He bowed amiably, but his green eyes remained cold. Sansa considered the man before her. He was richly dressed, more than she had expected a man of his rank to be. His coat was doubled with a deep green satin lining and trimmed with golden thread. With a face that could have been called handsome had he not this unsettling air of secrecy, he could have passed for a lord in any dining room party.

Sansa bowed before stating her words. “I have requested an audience with you concerning an unfortunate matter. Since the death of my beloved husband, we have had some queer news with regards to our finances.” She paused, remembering Varys’ instructions; she was not to show any suspicion of his person. “There have been some losses in revenue and, I am afraid, we must be more economical going forward.”

Petyr Baelish remained rooted in his position, hands joining behind his back. She did not like the way his eyes twinkled, perusing her with distrust.

_I do not trust you either._

“This will require me to forfeit some of my men, until we can regain our footing. I regret that your position in this estate will no longer be required, as I will take over your tasks.”

The man showed no emotion beside the placid smile which had not deserted his face. For a fleeting moment, the green of his eyes looked deadly and Sansa almost faltered in her decision. Varys had warned her that Petyr Baelish was no easy man but still, she had not been prepared.

“Very well, my Lady,” he replied, a voice smooth like velvet but with none of its comfort. “I shall vacate my premises within a fortnight.”

After having agreed to a parting sum, a symbolic gesture for his years of service, Sansa was glad to watch him leave from behind the curtains. He rode on a chestnut horse back to the road that led to the farmland, his coat flowing like a lingering threat.

“Disagreeable man,” she heard Arya say from behind. “His hands are too clean. I am happy to see him go.”

“Yes, so am I,” Sansa echoed.

 

Then, the fire happened.


	2. Fire in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our lady finally meets the man.

The fire burned like a torch in the darkness ahead. Around her, the maids skittered in panic, one of them crying the name of her lover nearly fainting in the arms of her friends.

 

“Wake my sister,” Sansa told the ablest of them, a young girl of fifteen who scurried off inside the quiet home. “And fetch my light coat.”

 

There was no time to dress and no time for propriety. She tied her coat around tightly around her waist, shrugging her hair behind her shoulders. Nobody would know her, she reasoned as she watched the dot of flames ahead.

Arya joined her, entirely dress and alert. Her hair was combed neatly behind her ears. When she looked at the fire, her face hardened.

 

“We have to go,” Sansa entreated, grabbing her arm. “I cannot wait here.”

 

“We can’t walk. It’ll take too long.” Arya turned to the same young girl. “Get Allen to prepare the carriage. Tell him to be quick.”

 

The ride was an ominous thing. She held a small lamp in her lap, its light becoming increasingly insignificant as they neared the fire ahead. The acrid smell of smoke became stronger. She heard the screams of people, the splashing of water, all figures moving like hurried ants in the distance.

 

Before the carriage came to a stop, Arya jumped down and ran into the chaos of figures leaving Sansa frozen behind. The foolishness of the endeavor suddenly dawned on her. What had she been thinking? How could _she_ be of any help?

 

“Has anyone alerted the fire brigade?” she asked weakly. “Is there even a fire brigade here?”

 

Allen turned in his seat, something like sympathy shining in his old eyes. She must have made a pitiful picture, clinging desperately to the side of the carriage.

 

“There is, m’lady. But it’s quite a distance from here. I can go make certain that they’ve been fetched if you’d like.”

 

She was left alone. People ran about, taking little notice of her. A wind of smoke whipped her face, bringing her eyes to tears. When a young man passed her by, Sansa grabbed his arm.

 

“What is happening?” she asked him, screaming over the sounds of the crackling fire. “What are we to do?”

 

He considered her briefly, like she was one the madwomen people avoided around the town.

 

“What are we to do?” he repeated, a little stunned. “Clegane said we’re to get in line.”

 

He rushed away, repeating the order out loud. The strewn crowd swiftly rearranged; she was pushed in the line and handed a bucket of water with an order to pass it forward.

 

They worked relentlessly, her arms beginning to ache with the effort. In front of them, the fire subsided at times but rose back treacherously at others. There seemed to be no end to the carnage.

 

“Clegane is going inside,” she heard the same young man announce. “We’ll have to go quicker.”

 

The people around her nodded without question but Sansa excused herself and hurried to the front of the barn. She would not risk anyone’s death for a barn and some grain, not while she presided over these grounds.

 

“What are you doing?” Arya shouted to her. She was at the front of the line, face darkened by ash and dirt. Her hair was sticking to her forehead in thick tendrils. “It’s dangerous here!”

 

Sansa felt a current of indignation pass through her. She had no right to caution her while she herself flirted dangerously with the flames.

 

“Where is this Clegane person?” She asked, hoping for anyone to catch the question.

 

“He is inside already,” someone shouted back.

 

She chanced a look at the hole in the barn and shuddered. It was as dark inside as the starless sky above them but at last, the fire seemed to weaken. A huge form emerged from the obscurity, a man so tall and wide that she at first thought of a grisly creature, the half-bear half-man monster that haunted her mother’s stories as a child. His face was covered with a thick wet cloth but his grey eyes gleamed, looking around for something or someone.

 

“Where’s the water?” He seemed to growl, the sound drowning even the turmoil around. He extended a huge hand at the closest man, who winced back. “The water?”

 

Sansa reached for the bucket at her feet, which had no doubt been abandoned in the mayhem, hauling it with difficulty. She approached him swiftly, her heart thumping with trepidation. The heat made her feel dizzy but she continued on until she reached him.

 

His eyes lingered on her person, staring with a scowl like she should not have been there, like she was an anomaly. She felt small under the heavy, almost violent gaze of this man. He grabbed the bucket roughly from her hand, looking away as if erasing her altogether from the scene, and plunged back inside.

 

\--

 

The barn was still standing in the morning. Its walls were scorched black and spikes of fumes continued to rise from its insides but it stood nonetheless. As the carriage approached, Sansa realized with relief that no other building had been affected.

 

“Brigade was too late m’lady,” Allen exclaimed bitterly, leading the horses to a halt. “Took them long enough to get in their boots.”

 

The men had arrived not long after the fire was put to rest. There could not have been a more despised set of people in the premises last night than those individuals. Sansa spoke to them with cold courtesy, while they received looks of disgust from everyone who had toiled so hard against the blaze.

 

She stepped down the carriage and surveyed the scene before her. Beyond the barn lay rows and rows of farmland that almost dissolved into the horizon. To her right were the various houses and lodgings of the workers scattered in a circle and another large shed where she could barely discern the pink muzzles of a few cows. Her eyes then fell on the young man from last night, who was clearing debris from the side of the barn. Sansa walked up to him.

 

“Good day,” she greeted. Then deciding to get straight to the matter, she added, “I need to speak with Mr. Clegane.”

 

He turned, eyes widening in surprise. No doubt she looked different from yesterday, more like the lady she was with her hair gathered in tresses and a proper gown on her frame. He stammered a little, bowing his head twice in his greeting.  

 

“Mr. Clegane is tending to his horse,” he replied, “and he doesn’t like it much when he is disturbed. Best to speak to him after.”

 

Who was this Mr. Clegane imagining himself to be? She remembered the hard eyes in a flash, the deep voice taut with ire. He may have frightened her last night with the fire roaring behind, framing him like a creature from the netherworld but she now had important matters to attend to.

 

She asked the lad whose name was Gendry to direct her to the man’s whereabouts, ignoring his caution. Her mind conjured Varys; his words of confidence had spurred her to this point. Sansa could hardly go back.

 

Gendry led her to another shed, situated a small distance from the last house. The construction was attached to a small home, more modest than the others. It stood at the end of a rocky and uneven path. When they reached the shed, he pointed to the entrance with an expression that seemed to plead for her to change her mind.

 

Sansa walked in. The smell of manure immediately assailed her, its pungent strength almost nauseating. When her eyes adjusted to the relative darkness, she saw not one but two giants inside: a horse and a man. The latter, whose back was facing her, brushed the hair on the animal’s powerful rear in movements that were oddly gentle for a man of his size.

 

“Are you Mr. Clegane?” She asked.

 

His hand stopped but he did not turn.

 

“Might be I am. Who’s asking?” He replied in a growl, the way a feral animal would at an intruder.

 

Her words momentarily stuck in her throat as she took in this unwarranted display of insolence.

 

“The lady of the house,” she replied coldly.

 

“ _The lady of the house_ ,” he repeated mockingly, resuming to his task. “What house is that? Certainly not mine.”

 

“The late Jon Arryn’s house and estate. I am his widow.” Her words sounded pathetic to her ears like the defence of a man who knew he was guilty. “Are you Mr. Clegane, yes or no?”

 

“Aye, I’m Mr. Clegane,” he answered derisively.

 

Despite the anger that was boiling within her, flushing her cheeks in what she knew would be traitorous shades, she was unable to look away. The horse frightened her and so did his master—for she knew that only such a person could tame a creature like the stallion in front of her—but together, they formed quite a picture, both terrifying and magnificent.

 

“I have come here on a matter of business but first, I wish to express my gratitude for the bravery you have shown last night.”

 

“You can save your courtesies, _Lady_.”

 

He persisted in keeping his face hidden, bending to attend to his creature’s leg. Sansa’s rage made her clutch the side of her dress and she thought desperately of the moments of humiliation her late husband had submitted her to and how cold and unfeeling she had remained throughout them all. That power for composure seemed to have forsaken her completely.

 

“Do you always offer your back to the people who speak to you?”

 

“No,” the answer came fast, in a sharp, cutting blow, “must be just you.”

 

“You do realize that you are under my employ,” Sansa snapped back, “and that I can have you dismissed if I cared to.”

 

The man laughed, like she had suggested something completely ludicrous. The timbre of his voice softened imperceptibly—it almost sounded pleasant. He dropped the brush on the ground and rose to full height, turning to face her.

 

Sansa suppressed a scream, releasing instead a soft, involuntary whimper that he most decidedly heard. The skin on the right side of his face was a mass of scars in horrible shades of flesh, the rugged texture visible even from her distance. On the other side were the strong features of a man almost handsome—a strong nose and jaw, the latter set tight as she looked upon him. His grey eyes watched her with intent, taking the breath straight out of her chest.  

 

“No words now?” He asked.

 

She forced herself to look at his face, locking her eyes to his, halting his disinterested but wandering gaze.

 

“Since you reject my gratitude, I should get to the second matter of my visit,” she forced herself to continue, ignoring the throbbing rage in her veins and the fright still gripping at her throat. “I understand that you are in charge here?”

 

She could tell he was taken aback from the way his eyebrows relaxed, forgetting the hostility.

 

“I am,” he replied.  

 

“And you are most familiar with the general operations of this farm?”

 

“Yes,” he growled, this time sounding insulted.

 

The man in front of her crackled with fury, the heat of it contagious. Her lady mother came to mind in all the poise and dignity she always carried herself with. “Words are a woman’s weapon,” she had told her a long time ago, “and the strong woman rightly wields them.” Sansa smirked, bringing her hands together. Her shoulders squared on their own right under his gaze. 

 

“Good. I need you to teach me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This specific part was highly inspired by Far From the Madding Crowd (as does the title of this story suggests) and I want to credit it here. However, I will be deviating from the story too as I have a plan of my own. And I also want to specify that in this fic, Sandor is not afraid of fire, at least not to the extent that he is in the books and the tv series.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos and comments. Please do let me know your thoughts on this chapter, as I am always happy to read them.


	3. A Bothersome Acquaintance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update at last! I am sorry for the delay but first, I must thank everyone who has left a comment or kudos. I am finally in a place where I can give this fic proper time. It is my plan to be faithful to the original story of Far From the Madding Crowd, but I do want to write a jealous Sansa. We don't see that explored often, I think. 
> 
> Again, I live for feedback and comments. I welcome anything and I am thankful for it all. I truly hope you enjoy this chapter.

There was an inquest, which took up most of her time. And then came the visitors, the first being Varys. He walked in swiftly, concern painted all over his fine face, and grabbed her hands into his plump ones. 

“My dear, how terrible!” He sighed, eyebrows contorting almost comically. “Apologies for not coming earlier, I was quite taken up with the Tyrell’s business…a dreadful affair, I must say.”

The Tyrell’s son had eloped with an unknown lover, according to the whisperings of her maids. 

“There’s no need to apologize, really.”

“But tell me everything.” He moved her to the long chair, sitting her down and settling primly next to her. “What has the inquest yielded?”

“Not much. There is slight evidence of a deliberate act, some debris that looked like cloth and glass fashioned into a torch. But it is not conclusive.”

To Sansa’s surprise, Varys appeared unmoved by the news. Rather, he adopted the usual knowing expression with which he seemed to lead his life. Leaning back, he knotted his hands together and retreated into a deliberately pensive state.

“What is it?” Sansa asked with urgency. “What do you suspect?”

“I should think it evident, my Lady.”

It took her a few seconds to understand.

“Lord Baelish?”

\----

 

Her first day of duty came at last but Sansa was not the least prepared. She sat at the breakfast table, occasionally sipping on her tea. The food, she dared not touch. The dress she wore, a simple thing she had ordered from her tailor, was uncomfortable with its unfamiliar fabric, rough and loose where it should be soft and fitted. 

Arya sat to her right, biting on a piece of toast slathered with jam. 

“Allen will be ready soon,” her sister said in good spirits, red syrup sliding down her chin. “I think I may ride my own horse and join you there.”

Sansa smiled tightly, hiding behind her porcelain cup. The tea burned her lower lip. It had been ten days since her conversation with that abhorrent man and not a day passed without her recalling it in odious flashes. 

“You seem ill. Are you still afraid of that man?” Arya asked with a scoff. “Because it is he who should be afraid of you.”

“That is easy to say,” Sansa replied tightly.

“Did he not agree to your terms? They seem to like him there, even if he is an absolute brute. His bark must be worse than his bite.” Arya stood up, revealing her usual outfit. “You really ought to try trousers.”

“Yes, perhaps. And while I am at it, I should have my hair cut off and call myself the lord of the house. That may earn me a little more respect.”

\--

Sansa embarked on the small carriage, not without noticing Allen’s puzzled look. Her hair was braided loosely and her maroon dress was the most commonplace attire she had ever worn. Any other gown would have been wasted on the day. 

Allen spoke cheerfully throughout the ride. It was a beautiful day, he said, and she would be happy to see that the barn was almost back to its initial state. He glanced back at her every few minutes, as if guessing her apprehension, but made no comment.

“I will be remaining close by, as I have business for the horses.” Allen said as they arrived. “One of them may require a new shoe. If you need me, you’ll only have to come by here.”

Sansa thanked him warmly before stepping down. For a moment, she was taken by the sight in front of her. The fields gleamed under the high sun and the sky was of the purest blue. It seemed impossible to remain in low spirits when the weather was so clement.

She spied her sister near the barn, a little to the side, leaning against the wall, arms crossed on her chest and chin tilted slightly upwards. That young man Gendry was speaking to her as he stacked bags of grain, his muscular arms shining with sweat. He stopped every so often to look at her with an air of polite reverence. Arya laughed in her rough, almost mocking way, which made Sansa cringe at this poor display of decorum. Gendry, however, did not seem to mind.

It was still early in the morning and the few workers who chanced to be outside walked about languidly. Sansa remembered his vague instruction, uttered roughly in the manner of a dismissal. “You know where to find me,” he had said, an implicit agreement to her terms.

She walked, holding her head high and remembering the way immediately. Passing the smell of manure, the lazy hums of the various animals, her feet travelled nimbly on the dirty trail at the end of which stood his modest house. When she reached the door, Sansa stopped and listened.

She heard his footsteps, the sound of metal clanking. Far to her right, his frightening mount made a faint sound, almost like a dog announcing her presence. Her hands pulled at the skirt of her dress, harder and harder, but the wrinkles in the fabric never vanished.

Before she could knock or gather her thoughts, the door opened and the man was there. Sansa lost her speech, words failing to form sentences. Instead, she noticed that the one thing common to the two sides of his face were his eyes--both grey and both terribly intense in their gaze. 

He stared openly, distrust and something else, something less off-putting, lurking in the depth of his look. Sansa allowed him the moment, seeing no other course of action but to wait on his verdict.

“It’s early,” he grunted at last.

His rudeness immediately restored her capacity for speech. Had she come later, he might have scolded her for it too.

“Workers keep to early hours,” she chirped in response. “Good workers, that is.”

He let out a snort, turning to walk back inside, freeing the frame of the door of his massive body. She peeped the red embers of a fire, an old copper kettle on a surprisingly small table. He had not had breakfast yet.

“You need a formal invitation?” He barked from somewhere inside. “You’ll wait a long time.”

Cheeks reddened by this uncouth behaviour, she stepped into his home. It smelled a lot of leather and firewood, not altogether an unpleasant scent. Her eyes took some time to get accustomed to the darkness inside. Sansa then discerned a room larger than she expected, decorated modestly but not without taste. 

He caught her as she spotted the curtains over his window, the light pattern of green leaves and marigold flowers attracting her fancy. She immediately looked to the ground, ashamed of her own lack of etiquette. If he noticed it, he made no comment.

“Tea?” He asked. It sounded less like a question and more like an order. 

She nodded. 

As he busied himself with the kettle, fetching two mugs from a wooden cabinet, she was at leisure to watch the creature. To him, she disappeared—he was not disposed to acknowledge her unless completely necessary. So she watched and deep inside, marvelled at the height and built of this individual, so unlike anything she had ever witnessed. Despite it all, he moved nimbly around his space with the same ease that she had in her own chambers.

Tea poured into the mugs, he sat down on his chair, legs splayed apart and finally looked at her, allowing her to exist again. He silently extended a hand in a mockery of an invitation, pointing to the other chair.

Sansa felt his eyes on her as she moved to sit in front of him, felt them as she busied herself with the sugar and cream. She lingered on the task, stirring her tea with undue alacrity. She felt like a spectacle to him. A lady who had lost her way. 

Cheeks reddened by the humiliating thoughts, she chanced to meet his look. He took a sip from his unsweetened, black tea never releasing her from his gaze. This open and impertinent observation was becoming unbearable.

“Is anything the matter?” she asked coolly, steeling herself for a biting response. 

He took another sip, lowering the mug. The right side of his face, the mangled side, was now in full view. The ghost of the initial revulsion returned to her. He watched her relentlessly. She sipped on her tea too. 

“Not with me,” he answered at last. “I’ll be going through my day, same as ever.”

“I expect you think me incapable of following along.”

“You’re a clever one,” he replied, sarcasm dripping from his voice. He leaned back, the full breadth of his chest blooming almost threateningly. “But here you are.”

“Yes, here I am,” she repeated, sensing her own voice turn into venom. 

His tea tasted much better than she expected. 

\-----

 

The woman was the newest thorn in his existence, which seemed perpetually plagued with individuals who simply refused to leave him alone. Gone was Petyr Baelish, with his duplicitous ways and ridiculous robes, only to be replaced with someone else. Someone far more difficult.

He had elected this life, chosen this specific lot of land for the relative affability and discreet temperament of its people. Sandor knew the farm like the back of his hand, its workers and its animals, having forged with them both a relationship of respect. He desired nothing but to be left alone, to his work, his horse and his life.

Baelish had known better than to stir him into the wrong moods. Sandor would miss the bastard. Now, he was looking at a creature far too beautiful to be sitting in his kitchen and far too bothersome to be allowed to remain in it. The lady of the house, he mulled as he took in her plain gown, an effort to reduce herself to the level of the likes of him. 

She finished her tea in silence, dainty fingers caressing his ugly mug. So this was the late Jon Arryn’s wife? A well-kept secret that should have remained unknown. He remembered the night of the fire, her hair gleaming in the night, so alike that he could have mistaken it for the flames. Now, it was gathered in a modest style, befitting the farmlands. 

Her eyes caught him, the features of her face hardening into whatever aristocratic notion of power she seemed to have. She hated to be watched, perhaps as much as he hated her gaze. But if he stared first, he could be spared.

“You do not wish to get along,” she stated evenly. 

“I don’t know you.” His reply was automatic, almost taking him by surprise. She frowned, a plump upper lip curling into the prettiest sneer he had ever seen. A polite sneer. 

Everything about this woman was polite.

“You must be excellent at making friends.”

It was his turn to sneer.

“Yes, that is precisely what we are doing here, becoming friends. Tomorrow, we can play cards together and perhaps, in a fortnight we may take a carriage tour of the county together.”

“I have no desire to do any of these things with you, believe me.” Her hands left the mug and disappeared under the table, no doubt folding neatly over her lap. 

He stood up abruptly, the desire to get her away from him flaring up. He had never liked lords and ladies, especially the former with their soft forms and indolent ways. The ladies had always been a mystery to him, having only seen them from afar. Now that the specimen was present in front of him, terribly beautiful, molded by perfect manners and polite insolence, he found that he hated them the most. 

 

The land needed ploughing. Whatever oat and barley reserves had been spared from the fire would not suffice to get them through another winter. At least, not without bringing profits to the Arryn estate, which Sandor believed was the whole point of her presence in the fields.

She stood a little to the side, awkwardly enough but never losing the stateliness of her ways. It seemed etched in her bones, the long neck and sharp jaw, a nose straight enough to incite fear. The workers walked about, careful to avoid her skirts as if their very presence could dirty her. They smiled every time they met her gaze, afraid to offend and desirous to please.

“Get the ploughs out,” Sandor barked, rougher than usual. “And the seeds too. We’ve got help now.”

She looked at him, assessing again, trying to detect his sarcasm. His burned side was exposed to her searing gaze. He turned abruptly, picking up a bag of seeds and hauling it over his shoulder. 

“Jeyne’s asking if she can help,” Gendry shouted from the barn. “Cows have already been fed, she says.”

Sandor nodded, although his approval seemed to matter little; Jeyne was already on her way. When she saw Sansa, she stopped, startled. And if he had not seen enough displays of ceremonious attentions, Jeyne was about to supply more.

“My lady,” she stuttered, bending in an awkward parody of a curtsy, almost falling because of the soft soil. Sandor scoffed under his breath.

The lady in question glanced towards him, and for a fleeting moment, smiled. His insides stirred, like fingers getting burned.


	4. A Day of Ploughing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's first day in the fields where she uncovers more Baelish villainy and learns to stop fearing Sandor and start disliking him instead.  
> Thank you again to everyone who has left a comment. I would love to hear your thoughts on this update.

They toiled until the afternoon and though the ground yielded softly beneath them, he could discern the signs of exhaustion on her. The straight posture had dwindled into a languid stance; her eyes had lost a little of their hardness. 

“Might be better to stop for now,” Jeyne suggested somewhere beside him. 

Sandor turned to face her, preparing for the inevitable flinch. But Jeyne, who had been with them for so long now, betrayed nothing. 

“No, we need to finish a fourth of the field. Nothing changes.”

She was working with Beric, sitting on the plough, legs stuck together. The way they sit in their drawing rooms, he imagined. Beric led the horses, doing most of the work without complaint. He had never really needed help for the ploughing. Burly and able as he was, he could mount the horses and keep a straight line even with one eye missing. The lady’s presence was just artifice.

Jeyne took the reigns while he guided the horses. Gendry and that uncommon little lady, the sister, were working on the third row. The lad usually worked with him but circumstances had made it so he would have to suffer Jeyne Pool’s companionship.

“How long is our lady going to be with us?” Jeyne asked, pulling on the reign so he could direct the horses a little to the right. 

“I don’t know.”

“It’s very uncommon, ladies like her, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Well I know a little. I used to work as a maid before I came here.”

She stopped and Sandor knew there was no point in ignoring her chatter. Besides, she was nice enough to him and as far as he could see, there was no ulterior motive in it.

“Oh yes?” He responded, offering her all the encouragement she needed.

Jeyne started again, “Both the mother and daughter refused to speak to us or even look at us. It’s like we were vermin to them. Or worse, for vermin gets noticed.”

“That’s wealthy folks for ya.” His brother came to mind. “Once you walk into their homes, all the grandeur crumbles.” 

“Not her,” Jeyne insisted softly. “She seems decent enough. If she’s willing to dirty her skirts and God knows what else with the rest of us…”

Sandor cut her off. “Don’t speak nonsense. She’s here for her own gain and nothing else. There is nothing to expect from her.”

Jeyne gave him a reproachful look, her pretty eyes tainted with exasperation. She could never understand and he was not willing to delve into the depths of his wariness for the lords and ladies. Wearing a brown frock and sitting uselessly on a plough did not prove anything to Sandor.

In the distance, she laughed with Beric, a clear sharp sound. The man rubbed his head, embarrassed or proud of whatever he had just said. Sandor watched, forgetting the horses and the plough, as their lady readjusted herself on the seat. She bent her graceful neck to take directions, her tresses tumbling down with her movement. 

“Sandor?” Jeyne called out.

He turned to her, annoyed. Jeyne pointed behind, showing the uneven line on the soil. They had strayed from the trajectory.

\--  
The need for a break was immensely felt and even Sandor could not deny it any longer. Besides him, Jeyne hummed a tune, her voice breaking out in a lyric here and there. It was an old song, something he remembered from another life, a life before his scars and perpetual anger.

Their cook, Hot Pie, had made yet another stew but nobody complained; the young man was skilled in his craft, even if it was the only thing he excelled at. Sandor expected that she would return to her house for lunch; some steamy brown hodgepodge in a wooden bowl would certainly not befit her taste. 

“Would you like some lunch milady?” Beric asked, his tone far too gentle to be natural. The other workers looked on, anticipating her answer. 

“Why yes, I would be glad. Thank you Beric.”

Sandor watched as she followed the workers towards Hot Pie’s kitchen, taking care not to step on the wet soil. She received her portion with a smile and thank you, more than enough to get the plump cook flustered all over. Everyone else appeared excited, exchanging looks and enthusiastic nods. It was as if their work day had just been cut short. He pitied them for being so easily duped, so willing to be charmed. 

“She is not like the rest of them,” Jeyne said besides him. “I told you.”

Sandor preferred to remain silent.

\------

 

It seemed she was forgotten now that food was served. Holding her bowl of stew, she searched the crowd for a familiar face. Her sister was nowhere to be seen and Beric, the only friendly person she knew, had joined a group of workers she had yet to be acquainted with. 

Resolved to appear composed as ever, she decided to seek some peaceful corner away from the barn but her plan was halted by a rough order.

“Sit with me. Lesson’s not over.”

He towered above her, as always and the semblance of confidence she had gained in Beric’s presence seemed to vanish. Not again, not another trying conversation with that man, she thought. 

He led her to a table, the crowd dispersing naturally to let him pass. She settled in front of him, the stew suddenly losing its appeal. 

“What else is so important for me to learn now?” Sansa inquired, forcing herself to hold his burning gaze. 

He took a spoonful of stew, chewing on the meat. His bowl was considerably larger than hers, no doubt proportional to his built and consequence. 

“Is the food not up to your standards?” He countered, noticing that she had not eaten anything yet. “First lesson, the rations here don’t come out of your pockets but ours.”

It took her a few seconds to understand his meaning. 

“I was not aware.” She picked up her spoon and tasted the stew, finding it surprisingly delicious. It was warm and consistent, the kind of meal she had not had since she was a young girl. “This is very good, I must say.”

“Of course it is,” he laughed, like it was evident. 

“Who has made it so that your lunches are deducted from your own rations?” Sansa asked, ignoring his theatrics. 

“The man who was here, before you decided to sack him. But he said the decision came from above.”

It would be entirely in Petyr Baelish’s character to enforce such a system, no doubt to sell the excess rations and maximize profit. Sandor looked at her pointedly, grey eyes the color of slate in the dim hall. 

“Did you believe him?” 

“Of course not, but does it matter? It’s not like your late husband cared enough to investigate.”

“Well, I do,” Sansa affirmed. “I want to make things right and I shall start with abolishing this appalling system. The food should be provided free of charge, by the employer.”

“That so?” He had almost finished his stew. “What about your profits?”

“What about them?”

“Isn’t that the whole point of your adventures in the field? Not losing money? Because that—” he pointed to all the workers around, “that is a lot of mouths to feed.”

Sansa was beginning to understand the nature of his hostility towards her but the thought made her veins scream with indignation. She imagined how he saw her, another version of Petyr Baelish, only in female form and with much more insidious manners. How did she look sitting in front of him in her brown frock and modest tresses? 

“It is a little unfair to assume the worst about me, is it not?”

He did not look the least abashed but for the first time, there was something almost handsome in the man. Perhaps it was the the slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips, a slim ray of light amidst the grey eyes and ravaged flesh. 

“I am not easily fooled,” he said at last, his grin disappearing. “You may charm everyone here and that is not a difficult feat, believe me.” He leaned towards Sansa, elbows settling on the wooden table deploying the full breadth of his shoulders. Every line and crevice in his face radiated with the strength of mistrust. “You are the most interesting thing that has happened to this bunch, after that fire. The sad truth is, once you are done with this little escapade of yours, you’ll forget about them. But they won’t forget about you.”

He stood up, picking up his empty bowl in one motion. She despised him the most in that moment, the strength of the feeling threatening to break her composure. 

“When you’re done, we’ll get started again.”  
\-----

 

The study was unusually cold; no amount of coal would induce the fire to burn brighter. She ached everywhere, so much that she had not even changed out of her dress yet. The bottom of the skirt had been turned into shades of grey by the dirt and dust in the fields. At first, she had tried to sit straight, so as to prevent it from dirtying the rich deep blue velvet of her seat. But the desire for comfort and a slight sense of disregard for her late husband’s furniture made her abandon all sense of decorum. 

He was in her mind of course, that Clegane brute. She could fire him, for all his insolence. But she had also observed him closely. He was very much competent. The workers liked him, even though none of them showed it in overt ways. Instead, it was betrayed in their tranquil obedience, the careful and skilled ways in which they navigated his moodiness. 

“My lady,” one of her maids announced, “there is a gentleman come to see you.”

Sansa stood up in alarm. It was close to six o’clock in the evening and she had no time to change into proper attire. Her hair had crawled out of the delicate tresses and morphed into some unspeakable coif. Before she could order her maid to buy her more time, the gentleman walked in.

“Lady Arryn, my apologies for coming in unannounced.” The intruder stopped, eyes taking in her untidy appearance with unguarded astonishment. 

It was a man who looked to be her age, if not slightly older. Sansa had not seen a handsome gentleman in quite while; she had almost forgotten that they existed. Jon’s friends had all been sallow looking fellows, some of them even suffered with an onset of gout at their young age. 

On the other hand, the man in front of her was a picture of good health: high cheekbones, a decisive jaw and healthy flush on the cheeks. His figure was slim but athletic, enhanced by an understated outfit. She felt herself blush furiously, an absurd surge of anger rising within her, for her maid, for the fields, for Sandor Clegane…

“Pardon me, but I am not sure we are acquainted,” she managed to utter with dignity. 

The man grinned, a charming grimace on a charming face. Some old version of her, the one who had been a ballroom dweller dreaming of romance, responded to it. 

“I am your neighbour.”


	5. More Than One Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lady returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, I am so so incredibly glad to see that you are enjoying this fic. I cannot say it enough. And to everyone who has left a review...YOU ARE THE BEST!!  
> (Seriously, y'all are the MVPs)
> 
> I hope you like this chapter and, as always, I welcome any review and comment.

Hearing Beric Dondarrion’s barely veiled praise of Lady Sansa Arryn during the next day in the fields, and then during the communal supper, was enough to grate his nerves into flames. At times, he raved about her humility, and at others, about her conversation as if he had any right to it. The man’s life had been one of extreme devotion to his Maker, his labour and his friends. No doubt he now considered the lady as worthy of it too. A few polite smiles and a change of outfit could work wonders, Sandor observed.

Five days passed with no news from the great house. He went on as usual, revelling in the keenness of his instincts. Every discreet murmur on the whereabouts of their lady, every remark from Jeyne or Beric or anyone else, only spurred a vicious sense of satisfaction. But deep inside, whenever he was alone at night with Stranger’s faint neighing rocking his thoughts, he knew it was his little speech that had prompted her absence.

“Better for her to quit now,” he muttered to himself, his rough voice cutting the darkness in half. 

He was always aware of his ugliness; it was only more painful in her presence. Whenever she spoke in that soft icy tone, his replies fell like gravel against fine glass. Everything about her was polished while he was made of unevenness. It had been particularly cruel for fate to subject him to her. Nevertheless, he had still thought that she would show more grit, that it would take more for her to admit defeat.

On the sixth day, he woke up to a grey sky and thick clouds—any work in the field would be interrupted by the rain that threatened to pour. He announced for a break day to the pleasure of all the labourers, and decided to use his time to reorganize the books instead. Whatever Petyr Baelish had done to the numbers needed rectification and the sooner, the better.

He started with the animals, counting every chicken and hen, every sheep, goat, cow until lunch was announced by Jeyne. She had come, dress drenched by the rain and only a thin shawl to cover her head. 

“Whatever madness has come over you?” He asked gruffly, gathering the paper and plume. “I won’t die if I am late for food.”

“You don’t like the scraps at the bottom of the pot you said,” she replied solemnly. “And Hot Pie’s scared to serve his stew without you around.”

They hurried back to the canteen under the pouring rain. He looked for a crown of red hair on top of a graceful neck. His ears strained for a delicate voice amidst the raucous laughs, the clanking of utensils and boisterous conversations. 

There was no sign of her.

After receiving his portion and grabbing a warm loaf of bread, Sandor carved his way through the mass of hungry workers back to the tables. His eyes fell on that odd sister, sitting with Gendry. Both of them were engaged in an animated conversation about horse saddles. He walked up to them, an idea striking him. She shot him a hard look, oddly familiar.

“Where is your sister?” He inquired, ignoring Gendry’s uncomfortable looks. He had a right to know, had he not? She was the one who had come to him, who had asked for his help. 

The sister’s expression was set to stone, her brown eyes glinting like blades. He understood she had gained some measure of popularity amidst the workers—especially Gendry who was entirely besotted with her. Sandor recognized her difference, the unconventional ways in which she seemed to lead her life. But the shadow of wealth loomed above her too. 

“Yes?” He heard that voice, that soft voice which made his blood turn rigid in his veins. 

Sandor turned, revealing the lady holding a bowl of stew the way she would handle a delicate ornament. It had only been five days but he felt like his mind had forgotten her, had conjured up a pale version of the real thing in his many furious musings. 

She was clad in another dress, something more noble with black lace trimming every edge. The navy colour made her hair stand out—like a fire at night. And her gaze transfixed him, brought him back to five days ago, to their conversation in this very space. 

“Sit with me,” she said, not an order but something close to it. 

She headed to an isolated table, easily manoeuvring around the crowds. He knocked someone’s leg and almost spilled stew over his own shirt. 

They sat facing each other. She set her utensils, neatly framing the irregular bowl and ignoring him. He found himself unwilling or unable to speak first. When she was done, her eyes gripped him again.

“You are no doubt angry at my absence,” she stated dully. “I was needed on other matters of business.” 

“We are not late on our work, if that is what you are wondering.” 

“Oh, I was not wondering.” She dipped her spoon, blew a gentle breath over the hot stew. “I never doubted your competence.”

His bowl was fuming too, so he proceeded to cut the loaf of bread into smaller pieces, the task requiring his undivided attention. 

“What is the lesson?” She inquired. 

“What?”

“Today’s lesson.” She raised an eyebrow, dipped her spoon again. “What is it?” 

She stared at him, the blue eyes perforating him, nailing any possible answer to the back of his throat. He felt like a child being scolded, like he should apologize. 

“Well, I did not brave the rain for nothing, did I?” She was mocking him now, not with insolence but with that well-bred tone and the softening smile, a bow neatly adorning the remark. 

“Where were you?” He growled back, not certain that he could accept being teased by this woman. “I’m not going to wait around everyday.”

She took another spoonful of stew, daintily swallowing it before giving him an answer.

“I did not realize you had been waiting.”

“I was not,” he hissed. She smirked at his lie. “It is a matter of manners.”

“Are you instructing me on manners?”

\------

It was amusing, watching him revert to irritable silence right before her eyes. The man was demystified at last, his beastly layers peeled off. He must have hated her the more for it. Brow furrowed, a thunderstorm fading in his eyes, he shoved a piece of bread into his mouth.

“Today is for the books,” he said at last. Sansa liked his tone better. “Making a registry of all we got here.”

“I look forward to it.”

They finished Hot Pie’s stew in silence while the cook himself hobbled about, holding a huge pot precariously, his brow glistening from the effort. He stopped by their table and set the pot on it.

“Anyone wants more stew?” He asked in one breath. 

Sansa politely declined, taking pity on his obvious exhaustion. He was too young to be this overwhelmed. 

“You’ll be tiring yourself like this boy,” the man across from her chided, not without a hint of gentleness.

“None of you lot want to eat reheated stew.” He sighed pointedly, his plump face contorting in a comical grimace. “I can’t let it go to waste.”

Sansa watched him as he huddled to the next table, where Beric was gracious enough to relieve him of his charge by taking a second and then a third helping of his stew. Before leaving the common room, she resolved to hire an assistant for the poor cook.

The inside of the barn still smelled of burnt wood, the scent now dampened by the day’s relentless rain. At her feet were strands of straw, roughened by the fire and sticking to the mud on her poor satin boots. She held the stack of paper with care, the plume nestled in the pit of her elbow. He had made a makeshift classification system, everything separated by lines and organized by category. The handwriting was rough but astonishingly concise. She pored over it with absolute ease, while her late husband’s financial books were still close to undecipherable.

“I’ve marked a section for the grain.” He pointed over it with his finger. “The bags are over there.”

He led her further inside where the light emanating from the open doors dimmed down. Bags and bags were stacked in a makeshift pyramid. The obscurity combined with their haphazard positions made it impossible to make a correct guess of their number.

“I am assuming ladies can count.” He nodded towards the paper. “I’ll move the bags to this side, two by two.”

Any absurd residual doubt she might have had regarding the man’s strength vanished as he picked up two bags with absolute ease. Her hand reached for the quill and dipped it into the small jar of ink. And sure enough, ladies could count just as well as anyone else but they were also just as prone to distractions.

The rain had soaked his tunic, which now clung to his form, revealing the muscular arms as they contracted with every fluid movement. He was relentless, vanished in the task of hauling the bags from one side to another with ferocious intent. Sansa almost lost count.

He then turned, intercepting her look, confusion painted in every line of his singular face. Some part of her worried about the impropriety of it all, as her heartbeat rose with unidentifiable energy. The darkness of the barn was like a natural lair, enveloping him but reaching her too. She remembered the night of the fire…seeing him for the first time in the entrance of this very place. 

“What is it?” He queried roughly, but the shadow of hesitance lurked in his brow. 

“Were you aware of Petyr Baelish’s dealings?” The question slipped from her tongue. It was all her mind could muster, conjuring that man’s name as a barrier—a distraction.

“I had my suspicions. This is twenty-six, by the way.” He gestured for her to note it down. Sansa complied, wondering if they were not at thirty already. “The man looked like a crook. Didn’t even have to speak for me to see it.”

“Why haven’t you reported it to Lord Arryn?” 

“I had no reason to. If the lord of these lands saw fit to hire a man like him, there was not much I could do about it, was there?”

“And now?”

“Well, now I am here.” He offered, dropping another charge of grain on the new pile. He did not look at her; she thought he was about to erase her from the scene again. “With you.”

She felt warmth somewhere in the pit of her stomach—a strange sensation, both violent and soft. She pressed the quill harder on the paper, concentrating on the count. When she returned home that evening, her fingertips were stained with ink.


	6. Shelagh's Milking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new, tiny assistant, causes a little trouble between Sansa and Mr Clegane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for the delay, but here I am with my next update. I wanted to post it before midnight, as a sort of New Year gift for you all.  
> It's a little long but I do hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you think!
> 
> Thank you for all the comments and love, from both new and old readers. You guys are the best. I am genuinely thankful and I feel super happy that I have been able to do these characters justice. It's such a pleasure writing this fic and I am glad you are all with me for the ride.  
> Have a blessed 2020, filled with love, health and success.

Her husband’s passing, combined with her new ventures at the farm, had distracted Sansa from the more mundane details of her daily life. There were social calls waiting to be made, pressing more urgently as the days and weeks passed. Her neighbours allowed her the time and space to mourn but she had lost herself in that void—that is, until Theon Greyjoy arrived in the county.

The neighbouring estate had long belonged to the Freys, an asocial family with too many children who all looked like the other. Sansa only remembered a gnarly patriarch, with whom her husband never got along because they both shared the same propensity for cheating at games. The actual land and house, visible from the road whenever she visited the town, held a savage air of abandon.

The news of a new neighbour, someone as young and fashionable as Mr. Greyjoy, came as a surprise. She thought of the tangled trees, the overgrown grass, the total absence of flowers, walkways and life. She could hardly picture him inhabiting the place, he, who looked nothing like a Frey.

Ever since his impromptu visit, Sansa felt obliged to perform her neighbourly duties—though she had no idea what they entailed. It was one thing to be the passive receiver of courtesies, standing by as one’s husband floundered about with empty words, and another to be the owner of an estate.

“Well, it is evident,” Varys blurted out, one afternoon as they sat in her study. “You must call on him and soon. It won’t do not to reciprocate.”

“Call on him? Is that not a little forward?”

“As forward as showing up unannounced in your study, and as you have said, while you were in a state of complete disarray?”

He took his cup, filled with steaming tea and sipped without a flinch. Sansa scoffed, only a little indignant. These afternoon teas had become a regular occurrence, a natural progression of their initial business connection. The sessions were always welcome to her—she felt she could be herself without restraint, could speak about the farms or the rest of society in equal measure.

“I was not in a state of disarray,” she defended. He raised his eyebrows in response. “No really, I can assure you, I received him well. If anything, he should not have called on me at such a late hour.”

Varys extended his legs, crossing his feet at the ankle. He grabbed a lemon cake from the platter, sniffing it with delight before popping it into his mouth.

“Oh dear, gentlemen like him rarely call at the right hour. And he hails from the Irons Islands.” He saw her confusion and added, “They have to board a boat just to call on each other…very primitive set of people.”

“What else do you know about him?” Sansa asked, her curiosity overcoming any sense of decorum.

“Well, without betraying too much, there was a question of the Freys—dreadful people, really—having taken advantage of the confusion after the war to claim the land. To be sure, that was years ago. The old Lord Greyjoy never recovered from his war injuries; he was left quite crippled. And now, his son has been sent to do the difficult work for him. I was surprised to see the lad come out victorious. These are the Freys after all.” He set his cup down carefully. “They set the dogs on one of their youngest just for daring to speak to a stranger.”

“I am thankful I won’t have to share space with the Freys any longer. But what does he intend to do with all that dead land?”

“I suppose what any man who comes into full possession of an estate would do. Fertilize the land, remove the weeds, plant crops, in whatever order these things are done.”

He waved a plump hand in dismissal, then laughed in a few graceful puffs of the chest. Sansa could not help but join in.

“Sounds like a familiar story,” he added, smiling conspiratorially, “does it not?”  
\-----

 

There was no immediate need to follow up on Varys’ advice, Sansa concluded. Reviving land after years of damage and negligence inflicted by Freys would be a monumental task and Mr. Theon Greyjoy could not possibly have time to spare for a social visit.

She woke up quite early in the morning, eyes splitting open under the diffused light. Lingering a little in bed, she listened to the shuffling of the maids, a muffled shout after the sound of glass breaking, the birds chirping feebly in the distance… her own heartbeat resonating in her ears. She rang for her chamber maid, anxious to be dressed and on her way.

Breakfast was a quick affair. She gulped her coffee, dipped in a buttered toast in between sips. Sitting right in front of her, Arya was watching carefully.

“Are you in a hurry?”

Sansa slowed down, questioning her haste. It was too early to get anything done in the fields. Besides, she could easily imagine his scowl if she were to knock at his door at this time.

“No, not really.” She slowed down, setting her cup down. Then, as if noticing Arya for the first time, she added, “Why are you up so early?”

Arya raised her eyes, her sharp face softened by surprise.

“You have been up before me almost every day of the past week. And you returned home after me every time. I cannot help but think that you are doing much more than necessary…I would not want you to wear yourself out on my account.”

“Are you tired of having me around?” Arya bit back. Sansa rolled her eyes.

“Not at all. You know you are welcome here. Always.”

Arya’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, her jaw chewing on toast with emphasis. It all came back to Sansa, their petty childhood quarrels, her choosing to walk to town with Lionel Lannister over her own sister. She had been a restless, uncouth little creature, obsessed with sword fighting, too loud to bring anywhere without having to provide profuse apologies. She had never truly forgotten Sansa’s old ways, the same ways that had secured her marriage to an eligible spouse and made her an heiress.

“I mean it Arya.” Sansa insisted, seeing the suspicion lingering in her dark eyes. There was something feral about her in the moment, something that reminded her of the big man in the fields.

“I like the company here,” her sister muttered. “It reminds me of home, of father. And Jon.”

Their father’s estate had been more modest and economical than the one she now found herself in charge of. Its workings had mattered very little to her. She had close to no memory of the animals, the workers or the land, having spent most of her time in the drawing room where everything was pretty and clean.

She wondered what Arya could see in the strange assortment of people working in her fields, but deep inside, she felt it too. A sentiment of kinship that extended even to the likes of Sandor Clegane.  
\-----

Hot Pie’s messy curls moved about, the only thing visible above the revolving door. Sandor was about to call his name when he noticed another pair of feet shuffling about, from underneath the door.

The door swung open to reveal a small creature, a being he could not identify. A young girl, who could not be more than thirteen or fourteen years old, stared back with the widest eyes he had ever seen, set on a slightly emaciated face. She blinked and he prepared for a scream, for her to drop the plates she was carrying, for any expression of repulsion.

It never came. Instead, she continued to blink for what felt like an entire minute before walking to set the plates on the nearest table. Sandor followed her movements, digging into his memory, trying to place her somewhere.

Hot Pie appeared through the revolving door, letting out a small shriek.

“Nobody seems to care about my nerves here,” the cook exclaimed.

Sandor ignored his antics.

“Who is this little girl?”

“My assistant,” Hot Pie declared pompously.

“Your assistant? Says who?”

“Says Lady Arryn, who by the way, has much more consideration for my person than any of you. She said I deserved some help.”

Hot Pie went on to set the bowls on the long table, the little girl trailing behind him like a duck’s offspring. He watched them, briefly forgetting the pound of wheat and oat he had come to fetch for his own solitary breakfast.

On his way back to the house, he wondered what game she could be playing. This was nothing but another expense, another decision with its own price.

\--  
Sandor had never been one to set suspicions aside, whether they were justified or not. He watched from afar, as Allen’s carriage brought her to their vicinity. She received his hand and stepped out daintily, as if going to attend a ball instead of the day of intense labor he had planned for her.

Her composure was just the same when she approached him and greeted him with her usual politeness. This time, under the sun, he noticed the delicate freckles adorning her nose, the gleam of her blue eyes. He only nodded in response.

“Early again?” He asked as he started walking away.

“Were you not waiting for me?”

Sandor stopped in his tracks and almost collided with her.

He’d be damned if she thought of him as anything like Beric or the rest of the fools who worshipped the ground she walked on.

“I had a question for you.” His voice slipped into his usual roughness.

“And what is your question, Sir?” 

Only a bare hint of amusement tinted her face. Even at the cusp of a muddy field, enveloped by the smell of manure and dressed in something Jeyne would wear on her best days, she still looked impossibly striking. He hated to give her that distinction, wanted to attribute it all to her wealth.

“Do not call me that,” he almost barked. She flinched, taking a step back into the mud. “I am no Sir. I will never be.”

She said nothing but he had grown accustomed to reading her gaze. Sandor did not want to claim any kind of relationship between the two of them but he felt whatever link there was weaken under his words.

He was not particularly disposed to endure another day of glacial silence. Besides, she could not have understood the root of his aversion; she did not know of his brother's masquerade amidst the gentry.

He extended his arm, an offer to help her out of the mud. She refused without breaking the silence, gathered her skirts with her arms and forced her foot out.  
\---

There was much to learn about the daily rations for all animals housed in the farm, but Sansa found herself unable to apply her mind to it. She followed him in silence, watched and cursed at his massive form. But mostly, she cursed at herself and her silly enthusiasm. To think she had looked forward to the work, to seeing this brute.

It was not until they had reached the cows, peaceful as they were in their shed, that he asked her the question. She had completely forgotten about it, the curiosity instantly extinguished by his roughness.

Sansa had never seen cows this close in her life. For a moment, she lingered in observation and marvelled at the creatures, their pink nozzles, the calmness with which they stared back, their wide, beady eyes imbued with serenity. She reached for the closest one, flattened her hand on its side and felt the coarse hair, the thickness of life beneath it.

“You’ve hired an assistant for our cook,” he started, almost hesitantly. There was politeness in his voice, like he understood the impropriety of intruding on a moment between woman and beast better than the uncouthness of his outbursts.

“What about it?”

Her fingers spread out against the animal. She vaguely remembered the little girl, the child of a Tyrell servant whom Sansa had always liked. Amidst the frustration, she failed to see the girl’s relevance in the grand scheme of anything that could be of interest to him.

“It’s an expense.”

Sansa turned, tilting her chin up the way her mother used to do, whenever she had been displeased with her father. He was kneeling down next to the first cow down the shed, patting its belly.

“You’ll need to cut down somewhere else,” he continued. “You’ll be letting someone go, won’t you?”

She let out an incredulous laugh.

“You cannot be serious. Are all my decisions and movements to be questioned so?”

“Yes, they are if they involve us.” He stood up in one movement but his tone remained even. “I am not going to stand by idly, while one of us is likely to find himself without a job soon.”

“If you must know, my own cook no longer requires an assistant.” She was pleased to see his surprise. Almost by instinct, her back straightened. “My late husband was particular with food. He insisted upon having three courses at every meal and I simply cannot ingest that much. Besides, I’ve grown fond of simpler meals lately.”

He nodded but Sansa was not quite done yet.

“This is not some elaborate plan for me to take your position. I am quite convinced no one else could replace you.”

“Well, who would blame you for considering it?” He raised his left eyebrow. The shadow of a smile played on his lips. It was the closest he had come to acknowledging his horrendous behaviour. “Now, grab that bucket and come here.”

Sansa obliged; their restored amicability permitted the work to resume. She handed him the bucket and he placed it underneath the cow. She knelt down next to him. He sat, two massive thighs splayed out to accommodate him in the small space.

“Shelagh here gave birth two months ago.” He pointed at the calf folded in its sleep. “We have about eight months of milk from her. There are three other cows with milk now.”

He turned to assess her reaction but then, he was closer than she had expected. Sansa was still; his face no longer made her flinch. It was not familiar yet, not with all the questions it held for her, enfolded tightly between every fold of damaged flesh.

But the darkness etched in his very features, the hair and brows, the pupils of his eyes… Sansa thought about it often, about the story behind the scars and the wrath.

“Twice a day.” He brusquely moved away. “For milking. We let them roam free for food during the day. During the winter, we give them the hay stored in the barn.”

He patted Shelagh, who hummed lazily, then grabbed a cloth and wetted it with water from a bottle nearby. She watched him as he gently washed the udder.

“Your turn now,” he announced.

“What can you mean?” But Sansa already knew. “I have never done this. I’ll frighten her.”

“You expect to get out of these lessons without anything more than dusty shoes?” He chuckled. “We don’t have all day.”

While there was the habitual repulsion that accompanied every new task, the desire to prove herself was stronger. Sansa complied and planted her knees on the ground.

“I’ve never done this,” she repeated. “You’ll have to tell me what to do.”

His hand reached for her wrist. Sansa caught a glimpse of it, the image seared in her mind. Rough, strong fingers wrapped around the paleness of her skin, the muddy straw beneath them. His thumb brushed right under the pulse point, light as a feather.

“Two at a time.” He guided her hand to one teat and signalled for the other. “Start gently and don’t tug. Just press.”

The milk came out in spurts and surprised Sansa. She let out an involuntary laugh, nervous and breathless, a consequence of a myriad of emotions.

Her shoulder touched his arm. Neither of them moved.


End file.
